


Roots and Branches

by thesadchicken



Category: Addams Family - All Media Types, The Addams Family (Movies - Sonnenfeld)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, F/M, Family, Family Bonding, Fluff, Gen, everyone is happy and all is well, i just love them all so much, loving family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27557704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesadchicken/pseuds/thesadchicken
Summary: "They’ve created more than just a home for themselves here—it’s like a piece of them, a family member."They're creepy, kooky, mysterious and spooky, but most of all, they're a loving family.
Relationships: Gomez Addams/Morticia Addams
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	Roots and Branches

**Gomez**

The fireplace casts long, dancing shadows on the furniture and walls. It crackles and sputters, and the face in the flames smirks in its usual sinister way. Gomez smiles back at it. His heart could burst from such boundless bliss. Reclining in his favourite armchair, nice and warm in his silk pyjamas and burgundy dressing gown, he looks around the drawing room.

Lurch is sitting at the organ, playing a delightfully ghoulish tune with his eyes closed. Grandmama and Pugsley are sitting on the big black pillows, watching the rain strike the window and dozing off to its pitter-patter. In front of the fireplace, Fester is helping Wednesday learn a new incantation. Thing is petting Aristotle, whose tentacles are wrapped around Marie-Antoinette, Wednesday’s favourite headless doll. And sitting on the gossamer couch is Morticia, book in hand, breathtakingly beautiful. Gomez watches her; the darkness of her hair; the paleness of her neck; the elegant arch of her wrist, bent over the edge of the couch. She closes her book when she feels his eyes on her, and a smile tugs at the corner of her blood-red mouth.

“Unhappy, mon cher?” she asks him, raising a single eyebrow. Her voice is like the whisper of wind on a moonless night.

He shivers. “Oh yes, yes! Completely.”

She reaches out, pressing her palm to his cheek with infinite tenderness. He turns, only slightly, and places a kiss on her fingertips; they are cold as death. He marvels once again at such perfection. He could lose himself in her—indeed, he has!—but the spell is broken moments later by a spine-chilling cry.

“The baby,” Morticia says, putting her book aside.

“I will go, _cara mia_ ,” Gomez jumps to his feet. He leans in for a quick kiss. She smiles, pulling him closer. The separation is almost painful. “I won’t be long,” he promises as he leaves the room.

Baby Pubert was asleep when they left him in the nursery, but he is now wide awake, screaming and shooting flaming arrows at the ceiling. Gomez lifts him out of the cradle and holds him up proudly. Nothing in the world could steal this; the joy he feels in this very moment. He hugs his son to him, and the baby stops crying. Walking towards the window, Gomez looks out at the cemetery in the backyard, tombstones glistening under the heavy rain. Thunder rumbles in the distance. Generations of Addamses—Gomez takes a moment to think of all those who between these walls once abided, adored, abducted. His eyes find his parents’ grave. He remembers standing at this very window with his father, thirty years ago.

“Before Fester left,” he whispers, “you told me you were the luckiest man alive. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t believe you. But now… now I know what you meant.”

Yes, he remembers the words his father spoke to him on that gloomy evening. _Raising you and your brother, having your mother by my side; it’s all I ever dreamed of. I am the luckiest man alive_. At the time it sounded uninspiring to young Gomez, a senseless stream of sentimental nonsense. Oh, but now he understands. He reminds himself to leave a cigar on Papá’s grave next Halloween; and one for Mamá as well.

As he walks back downstairs, holding Pubert in his arms, he can hear the sweet sound of Wednesday’s ominous chanting, and Fester’s maniacal laugh. The drawing room is as dark and shadowy as ever; the perfect place to spend a calm evening indoors. Gomez leans against the door frame and watches them: his family, his own dear family.

“I am the luckiest man alive,” he sighs.

* * *

**Wednesday**

The dying sun bleeds onto the horizon, tendrils of evening light slithering down the hills and across the cityscape. Wednesday sits in the weeds, absent-mindedly tugging at her braids. She has never been one to fidget, but her mind is preoccupied. She hears her father’s swaying footsteps, the crunch of dead leaves under his polished shoes. He sits beside her, cigar in mouth, and looks at the sunset.

“Storm clouds are gathering, it seems. And the sky is red as blood,” he grins.

“Red sky at night, shepherd's delight,” Wednesday counters gloomily.

He turns to look at her, eyebrows raised. “What a horrible thing to say.”

“I’m sorry,” she sighs. “I can’t really appreciate the sunset.”

He shuffles closer to her, carelessly casting his cigar aside, and for a moment she almost regrets letting her trepidation show. Her father isn’t the most observant man in the world; had she wanted to conceal her uneasiness from him, she could’ve done so easily. But for some reason she did not. And as much as she likes to pretend that her parents are overwhelming, tonight she finds her father’s flamboyance reassuring.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

She watches the smoke from his discarded cigar rise in the late-autumn air, curling into strange shapes. Too bad the ground is dry; that would’ve caused a pretty fire. She takes a deep breath. “Am I… different?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think I’m odd?” she puts it bluntly, and she knows she’s losing her patience but she can’t help adding; “Do you think I’m a freak?”

Her father studies her, brow creased with worry. “Of course you are. Don’t worry about these things, _pequeñita_.”

“I’m not worried,” she shrugs, backpedalling now that her concerns are out in the open. Vulnerability is the one—and only—thing she fears. Her feigned indifference sounds, well, _feigned_ , and she hates that it makes her feel like a little girl. “What I mean is—I don’t always feel welcome. Out there.”

She nods towards the horizon, the shimmering lights, buildings and houses and supermarkets and schools. The city, sprawled at their feet like a bear rug. There’s silence; something she is unaccustomed to when spending time with her father. She keeps her eyes on the lights, squinting until they dance on her eyelashes like fireflies.

“Everyone feels rejected at your age, Wednesday,” her father finally says. “You have every right to lean into that feeling, if you wish. I will not sit here and tell you that your struggles are inconsequential, but your mother and I will always be here for you whenever you need us.”

The sentiment warms her otherwise icy heart, and even she has to admit her father has a way with words. But he still hasn’t understood her meaning. It’s frustrating.

“But what if it’s not about age?” she asks, tentative. “What if it’s about who I am?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him smile.

“They say you take after your mother, and they’re right. But right now you remind me of myself when I was young. I doubted myself too; I was insecure and apprehensive. I will tell you what my father told me: don’t tame your demons. Befriend them.”

Wednesday slowly turns to look at him. He is staring straight ahead, smiling, lost in the wistfulness of some childhood memory. And that’s when she realizes, with a pang, that he truly does not understand. He doesn’t see it, he doesn’t see any of it—the stares, the sneering, the disapproval written on every face, everywhere they go. He doesn’t notice the way people avoid them in the streets, the way they gawk and gasp and clutch their chests in horror.

He sees nothing. His acceptance of the outside world and all its empty perkiness isn’t the cold resignation Wednesday mistook it for—it’s tolerance, a deep respect for difference as an essential part of life. She feels like she’s learned something crucial about her parents. Looking up at her father now, she is moved by the smile he turns towards the city; towards a world that will never reciprocate his respect and acceptance. Suddenly she is overwhelmed with affection for him, and an irrational need to protect him from what he does not know.

Perhaps he knows but chooses not to acknowledge it, she rationalizes. Or perhaps he is truly unaware and, on some level—he would scold her for even thinking it—innocent. Either way, she forbids herself to tell him.

“You’re right,” she says, placing her head on his shoulder. She realizes as she speaks that it’s true; her father’s words really do make her feel better. What does it matter if the world sneers? She has a world of her own. She has her family.

“I won’t tame my demons,” she adds, “but I’ll keep them on a leash.”

* * *

**Morticia**

The fog lifts, the howling wind fades to a whisper, the thumping beneath the ground subsides, and the graveyard is once again plunged into preternatural silence. With a flick of her wrist, Morticia removes her black veil and breathes in the scent of damp and decay. She smiles to herself. The evening has been rewarding.

Her magic is still buzzing in her veins; peculiar, potent, powerful. Words that have often been used to describe her, magic aside. Content, she slips her little grimoire into the pocket of her cape. Mama has always used bones and spider legs, and while Morticia certainly appreciates the talent required to properly brew a potion or read a crystal ball, her own interests lie in the more refined aspects of the art. She’s wickedly good at hexes, but mostly relies on her piercing stare to take care of unpleasant situations. Magic, she reserves for evenings alone.

She holds her hand up and a nearby tree branch snaps. There is satisfaction in such power, and in the hours and hours of practice she has put into achieving it. But she just heard the great clock strike midnight: the children’s bedtime. It’s time to go home.

The ground crackles beneath her heels as she makes her way to the front door. Her tongue still tingles with the remnants of a spell. She turns to face the mausoleum, eyes flashing like lighting, and the stone breaks under her gaze. She needs the release, that last flicker of fire before she can settle in for the night. She’ll fix the crack tomorrow.

Her footsteps are feather-light on the front porch, but Lurch opens the door before she even knocks. She gives him a grateful smile, which he returns with a slight bow and a ‘goodnight’ grunt. Thing jumps onto her shoulder excitedly. She allows it. She’s in a good mood tonight.

The house is oddly quiet. There’s the sound of Mama sharpening her knives and Fester howling on the roof, but nothing else. She’s surprised to find the attic dark and silent, and for a moment wonders if the children are playing dead again. Then Thing points downstairs, and she glides across the house, taking the long way to the kids’ bedroom. For some reason she feels like lingering. She takes it all in, room by room: the dining room, the conservatory, the dungeons, the bottomless pit, Fester’s lab, Gomez’s office… They’ve created more than just a home for themselves here—it’s like a piece of them, a family member. Morticia hears the spirit in the rafters groan in agreement. Yes, much more than just a home.

She reaches the kids’ bedroom and finds Gomez there, leaning against the door frame, shrouded in shadows. She stops for a moment to watch him. He is beyond perfect; a devoted husband, a loving father to their children, a passionate lover after midnight. She now has everything she’s ever wanted, and enough time to seek out the dark forces whenever she pleases.

“ _Mon sauvage_ ,” she whispers, and he turns, handsome as ever, smiling serenely.

“ _Cara mia_ ,” he answers, bringing her hand up to his lips.

She tears her eyes away from him to look around the children’s room: they’re both asleep, curled up in their beds; _little entrées_ , she likes to call them. She won’t ask how Gomez managed to get them to go to bed so early. Some miracles need no explanation.

“And the baby?” she asks instead.

“Fast asleep.”

She leans in for a hungry kiss. “ _Alors nous sommes seuls?_ ”

“Oh, Tish,” he sighs, pulling her closer. “That’s French.”

“ _Oui_ ,” she smirks.

Moonlight trickles through the windows and pools on the floor of their bedroom as they enter, hand in hand, and lock the door behind them.

* * *

**Pugsley**

The door creaks as it slides open, and Pugsley pushes his head through the crack. Mother has always been a light sleeper, unlike Father, who even now sleeps like the dead. She sits up in bed, blinking in the darkness.

“Pugsley, darling, is everything alright?” she says softly.

Pugsley tiptoes into his parents’ bedroom, eyes puffy with sleep. “I’m not having nightmares…” he whispers miserably.

Mother pats the space on the mattress between her and Father. “Come here.”

He climbs into bed and cuddles up next to her. She places a kiss on the top of his head and wraps him up in a blanket. “There you go,” she says soothingly. “My little bat.”

It doesn’t take long for Pugsley to fall asleep. Here, safe and warm, he has the most delightful nightmares. He may be quite little, and probably not as clever as Wednesday, but whatever happens, he knows he will never have to be alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I love them all so much. 
> 
> Wednesday's last lines are inspired by the lyrics from Hozier's "Arsonist's Lullabye". The title really does suit her.


End file.
